


Sparking To Culmination

by badboy_fangirl



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboy_fangirl/pseuds/badboy_fangirl
Summary: Lincoln finds himself feeling something he shouldn’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started this piece as a way to give Lincoln and Sara THE SCENE where they talk about HIAB, but it sort of went off from there in a way I didn’t expect. But in the end, though it’s not what I expected, I actually really like it. This is spoilery for everything, including up through 4x02.
> 
> It seems shippery, but it's really not.

It doesn't happen all at once; it never does.  
  
He'd spent more than three years in Fox River, and some months, she was the only woman he saw at all. He wasn't blind, even if he'd been on his way to the Chair, but all the same, he hadn't really entertained ideas about her, even in there.  
  
In there, he'd thought about Vee.  
  
The day after they're shipped to L.A. for the crazy 'break-in' scheme that Agent Self (what kind of name is that?) wants them to do, she's walking up to the boat. Her little island of isolation. The place that he's sure he'll see his brother disappear into from time to time. She glances back as she starts to climb up the stepladder, and catches him watching her.  
  
He's not even  _watching_  her, not really. He just happens to be looking at her when she just happens to look back. But there's a catch in her step, a pause in her arm as she's about to pull herself upward. Then there's a hint of a smile, and an acknowledging nod. Lincoln returns the gesture, his chin tipping down towards his chest.  
  
His immediate thought is he needs to call Sofia.  
  


*

  
  
A few days later, they’re sitting around their planning table, throwing out ideas about how to make their next move. Sara always contributes, but today, she gives them the best idea.   
  
He sees Michael’s hand move, and he knows that his brother is squeezing her leg under the table. Her head turns so she can look at him, but her eyes stray past Michael’s shoulder for just a moment, to Lincoln, who is once again watching.   
  
Something strange happens in his chest right then, and he clutches at it unconsciously.  
  
"You okay?" Michael asks a few minutes later when they’re both up getting a cup of coffee.  
  
"Yeah, why?" Lincoln asks in response, looking up at his brother.  
  
Michael shrugs, his gaze moving across the room to Sara, who is speaking softly with Sucre. "You seemed worried when Sara volunteered to do this one."  
  
Lincoln ponders that for a moment, and then nods.  _That must be it_. "Well, yeah, it’s dangerous. Aren’t  _you_  worried about her?"  
  
Looking away from the subject of their conversation, he murmurs, "Of course I am, but I can’t tell her what to do."  
  
Frowning, Lincoln pushes his hand against Michael’s shoulder. "Don’t tell her  _what_  to do, Michael. Just tell her you  _don’t_ want her to do it. If you think it’s too dangerous, you have to make the appeal to her. You have to make sure she knows nobody here expects her to give her life. She’s not working off a prison sentence. She’s only here because of you."  
  
Because of the guilt that instantly floods his brother’s face, Lincoln wishes he could take the words back. "I just mean…ah, fuck. Just talk to her, okay?"   
  
Michael nods and then moves away from the coffee maker. Lincoln angrily stirs creamer into the dark liquid until it turns a light shade of brown. He knows what he’d have said to Veronica if he’d had any idea what they were up against at the time.   
  
He just doesn’t want Michael making the same mistake.  
  


*

  
  
That evening, he makes his way to the boat. Michael has dropped into a deep sleep on one of the many sofas in the upper loft of the warehouse. It’s probably his only chance.  
  
"Knock, knock," he says softly, but even so, Sara’s head jerks up, and he knows he’s startled her. He knows she’s freaked out about whatever happened to her, but she just soldiers on. He can’t decide if that’s good or bad. He’d watched her the day they’d arrived at the warehouse beat the holy hell out of a few wood plankings. She didn’t know he’d seen her do it, and he was pretty sure nobody else had seen it; her anger could be a good thing, or it could end up costing them.   
  
"Come on up," she invites, even though her wide eyes show she’s still a little frightened.  
  
Lincoln does as instructed, and it’s in the moment that he pauses as he sits down next to her that he feels it again. She’s watching him, and he’s about to say something that might come back and bite him in the ass, but there’s something about her eyes, and he can’t act like he doesn’t feel it this time. The first time, it had been a fluke. The second time, he was just worried about her. If she really did die, and he had to go through it with Michael again, well, neither of them would probably survive it. Emotionally dead was just as good as physically dead from what he could tell.  
  
But the third time the spark lights along his veins, and his blood rushes a little more warmly under his skin, and his eyes uncontrollably land on her mouth—well, he gets to his feet even before his ass has entirely settled on the seat next to her.  
  
He just dives in, looking down into her face, with what he came to say in the first place. "We need a plan," he says.  
  
She glances around then, maybe looking for Michael, he doesn’t know, but he knows she notices that everyone else seems to have disappeared, and understandably, she can't figure a plan they'd discuss without all of them present. "I thought we had a plan," she says, confusion in her gaze.  
  
"No," he says with a brief shake of his head. " _You and I_  need a plan."  
  
"What kind of plan?" she asks, though he can see in her eyes she suddenly knows what he means.  
  
"If things go sideways, you and Michael have to go one direction, and I have to go another. I will draw the fire. You understand?"  
  
She doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, her eyes roam over his entire face, and he feels his skin prickle because it. "Does Michael?"  
  
His answer is short and blunt. "No. I said  _you and I_."  
  
When she remains quiet, he fills in the silence with, "I had the same plan with LJ. He took Sofia to safety; I went to jail. We planned it to protect the most fragile."  
  
"In that case, Sofia?" she says, a hint of incredulity causing her eyebrows to go up as she continues, "Michael is more fragile than me?"   
  
The smile that ghosts her face causes yet more havoc within the pit of Lincoln’s stomach, so he does everything he can to not respond to it, which is easy given the gravity of their conversation. He just stares at her, his eyes communicating more in a heartbeat's passing than any words he could ever say. But, finally, he does speak. "You survived Gretchen."  
  
"Michael survived Sona."  
  
"Are we really going to argue this?" he snaps. "My point is, you have to take him in the opposite direction from me, you got it?"  
  
She looks away, and then gets to her feet too, which causes him to back up, even though there’s very little place for him to go. Sighing, she looks firmly into his eyes as she says, "I don’t know if I feel comfortable keeping something like this from him."  
  
He makes a sound of irritation. "If we tell him, he’ll never agree to it."  
  
She pins him with a stare. "Yes, I know."  
  
"Then work with me, will ya?"  
  
As he awaits an affirmative answer (because he’s certain she can give no other), she lifts a hand to the back of her neck. Her fingers squeeze and rub the skin under her wad of hair, easing tension that’s been there for ages; it’s nothing he’s put on her.  
  
But even if it were his fault, he doesn’t care. He knows this is the only way to ensure both of their safety, whether Michael likes it or not—or would agree to it or not, Lincoln knows now that a world without Sara is not something they can endure.   
  
"Sara."   
  
Her eyes come back to his then, and he finds himself holding his breath. If she doesn’t agree to this, he’s not sure what other tactic he can use to bend her to his will.  
  
"All right," she says, her voice soft, a catch in it. She nods, her determination becoming more apparent. "Okay."  
  
Lincoln turns away, wanting to get off the boat as quickly as possible, but he stops himself. Glancing back, he offers, "I can’t be the one to tell either of you about the other, ever again. Okay?"  
  
He sees tears spring to her eyes and she nods again, only it’s jerky and uncoordinated. "I do," is all she says, and he jumps down, running from what exactly, he isn’t sure.  
  


*

  
  
Things go better than they planned (for fucking once), and nobody ends up sacrificing themselves for anyone else.  
  
 _Not yet anyway_ , Lincoln chides himself. But all the same, they find their way back to the warehouse in the early morning hours, exhausted but somehow exhilarated to have accomplished what they’ve accomplished. Sucre’s repeated high fives all around start to wear on Lincoln’s nerves, so he finds a beer and a corner and he sits down, withdrawing into himself in the process.  
  
He doesn’t do it quickly enough, however, because he’s still entirely aware of Michael and Sara and how the adrenaline high has made them not as discreet as they normally are. When they climb into her boat and disappear into the tiny cabin, Lincoln finds himself uncomfortably aroused.   
  
He thinks about calling Sofia, but it’s pointless because he doesn’t have any privacy anyway, and it would be less than satisfying, even if Sofia were around. She’s a sweet girl, and she’d been good to him during their brief time together. Perhaps he’d have been content with that forever if he hadn’t been forced into this situation, if he hadn’t been forced to acknowledge attraction in the most inappropriate place.  
  
Finishing the contents of one bottle of Corona—beer he doesn’t even really like—is not enough. Sitting there thinking about Sara—with his brother—is too much. He finally gets up and goes outside, walking around the bulk of the building until he can see the sunrise. The sky is turning from that darkest of night blues into the first faint reds of the morning, and he remembers one other sunrise—the only one he ever got up for because who in their right mind would get up that early if they didn’t have to?—and the beautiful woman he had shared it with.  
  
Leaning against the metal wall, he lets the light penetrate his eyes, the increasing rise of the sun slowly casting a bigger and brighter spotlight upon him in this crazy make-believe world they exist in right now. He thinks now there will never be a normal again. There won't ever be Saturday morning soccer matches to go to, and parents' nights at LJ's school with Lisa and Adrian that are much more awkward and uncomfortable than anything else, or anything with Michael that can be the way it was previously when his skin was empty of ink. For so long the driving thought was if they could just get to Panama, then things would be okay; or when he could just get LJ back, or lately, when he and Michael somehow accomplish the impossible and somehow don't die from it.  
  
But then it will just be Michael and Sara, and Lincoln with this strange longing that makes no sense. And that's the best case scenario.  
  
He closes his eyes against the sun, allowing the image of making love to a woman he needs more than wants and loves more than likes to flood his memory.  
  


*

  
  
Two days after their big success, they get word that Bruce Bennett is dead. Lincoln watches as Sara tries not to crumple under this revelation, but Michael tucks her under his arm and leads her to the privacy of her boat.  
  
An hour later, Michael has to leave with Mahone to do some reconnaissance on a new target, and Sara leaves too. Lincoln just has an inkling, something that gnaws at his nerves and, because he has no particular assignment at the moment, he follows her.   
  
"You don't want to do that," he advises as he sits down next to her at the bar. The full glass in front of her is untouched, but her hands lay tensely on the dark wood next to the clear liquid. "Is that vodka?" he asks, unable to help the curiosity. For some reason he figured Sara for a bourbon kind of girl.  
  
"Can't smell it," she responds, answering his question without pretense.  
  
"You think that will keep Michael from knowing?" he asks softly. She still hasn't looked at him, her eyes seem to be draining every last drop from the glass even though her throat is dry. "You know he sees everything, right?" Lincoln chuckles, though the memories aren't pleasurable. "The only shit I ever got away with was the stuff he didn't want to know about. Even when he was a kid."  
  
After a long pause, she drags her eyes to his, and tears appear anew. She blinks and then wipes at her right eye with her right hand, but the left side of her face catches the dim light just right and he can see the trail the tears leave behind. Reaching up, he rubs his thumb over her left cheekbone, then along the curve of her jaw. Her skin is flawless, and so soft. In that moment, he doesn't think he touches her for her; he's certain he's copping a feel, but it's so virgin in territory, he allows it to go on.  
  
She takes a trembling breath, and then her face moves into his palm, the gesture disturbingly inviting. What he wants to do then is lean forward and put his mouth over hers in such a way that she would use him instead of the booze to make herself feel better. The fact that he knows he could be just as useful—or destructive—as the alcohol in front of her is the only thing that keeps him from doing it.  
  
"Come home," is all he says.  
  
Home is a relative term, but it's what they are to each other now.  
  


*

  
  
The night they get the last piece of Scylla, they have an out and out party in the warehouse. Sucre puts on some Spanish music and dances all over the place, and all of them—except Sara—get drunk.  
  
At one point, Lincoln hears Michael apologize to her, but she just laughs and says she doesn't mind being the designated driver. Everyone knows they aren't driving anywhere, but everyone laughs with her. Everyone is so overjoyed they can't possibly be responsible—at least for one night.   
  
Even Lincoln, who hasn't had more than one or two beers together at one time himself, indulges. Michael passes out early, much to everyone’s surprise but Lincoln’s. He never could handle much.  
  
When Lincoln starts on his fifth beer, Sara sits next to him on one of the sofas in the loft.   
  
Holding up the bottle for her perusal, he explains, "I'm such a lightweight, Doc. I used to be able to drink twice this much without even feeling it. Drying out in prison sure as hell changed that." Smiling, Sara turns to look downstairs where Roland, Bellick and Sucre are dancing. Lincoln turns with her, noticing that Mahone has disappeared, but he's so beer buzzed he can't even feel irritated at the moment that the bastard might have tried to leave before they could have it out between them. He does throw another glance at Michael, across the room from them, sprawled face down on one of the sofas. Pointing, he says, "'Course, I'll never be as lightweight as that one."   
  
Sara’s joyful laughter does odd things to Lincoln’s chest, and once again, he’s forced to acknowledge the desire that simmers just under the surface. He’s certain she doesn’t feel a thing, it’s only him, but the beer works to shut down that voice of reason. As her eyes move from Michael’s prone body back to Lincoln’s face, he moves into her and plants his mouth right over hers.  
  
She doesn’t push away from him, but she doesn’t respond either. He moves his lips against hers, testing, more curious than hungry at the moment. More reckless and stupid, since the dancers downstairs can see them, and if Michael opens his bleary eyes, he too would be able to observe Lincoln’s most inelegant moment.  
  
Then her lips move—probably because she’s going to say something—but Lincoln takes the advantage, and opens his mouth a little, flicking his tongue along her bottom lip. She gasps then, and he reaches his free hand up, sliding his fingers into the red hair that covers the nape of her neck so he can tip her head just slightly. Then he angles his own so that their lips are perfectly aligned and he kisses her deeply, his tongue exploring gently while his lips shape themselves against her soft mouth, and surprisingly, she responds.  
  
It doesn’t last long, perhaps because her compliance is more shocking than the fact that he actually had the balls to try it in the first place. But then her hand comes up against his chest and she pushes him back slowly, allowing him to end the kiss by withdrawing his tongue, rather than jerking her face away from his. In finality, he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth, a silent  _thank you_  for whatever she’s just allowed to happen.  
  
Opening his eyes to assess the situation further confuses him, because her eyes are wet again with tears, and he wonders if it was that bad. Or if she feels guilty about Michael. Or what the hell will happen now.  
  
Her fingers move caressingly against his chest, and he realizes her hand rests over his heart. Then she whispers, “You just miss her.”  
  
The placement of her hand manages to keep him back, but somehow holds him in place as well, with their faces close together.  
  
He sighs, because it isn’t true, but he figures the best thing to do is agree. "Yeah," he mumbles, his eyes still scoping out her lips. "I should call Sofia."  
  
Sara’s eyes darken and a frown appears in her forehead. "You don’t miss  _her_. You miss Veronica," she says, her voice soft, but no longer as quiet as it had been.  
  
Lincoln jerks with that pronouncement. “What?” he asks, because she couldn’t have possibly said what he thinks she said.  
  
“Lincoln,” she says gently, and when he would have sprung to his feet, her hands merely lift up and catch at the top of his shoulders, holding him still. He blames the beer for his inability to get a way from her.  
  
With one hand, she draws his chin back to center so that he’s forced to look at her, and then she sniffs, the tears in her eyes slowly receding. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he got me back, but you didn’t get Veronica. It’s okay if you’re mad about it.”  
  
He wishes he knew what the hell she’s talking about, because he doesn’t feel angry at all. At least, he’s not angry at her, or at Michael. And he doesn’t really think about Veronica all that often.  
  
Except when he does.   
  
He drops her gaze, his chin hitting his chest as the truth of her words seem to penetrate everything inside him. All the ways he tried to not think about it suddenly funnel in towards him, and he can see with a clarity he lacks when he’s totally sober.  
  
In a way, it’s a relief. To not want Sara—only what Sara represents—takes a load off of him that he couldn’t carry with everything else assaulting his senses.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, and this time when he moves away from her, she lets him go with ease.  
  
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she replies.  
  
Huffing out a breath, he lets his neck relax so his head lands on the back of the sofa as he slumps down on it. “Oh, bullshit. There’s so much to be sorry for, most of the time I can’t find my ass with both hands.” He reaches over and wraps a hand around her wrist. “I’m sorry I made a pass at you. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”  
  
“No,” she says, and she turns her arm in his grasp so their hands can join together. “Don’t be ashamed, Lincoln. We’ve all lost people we love because of this. I’m no better than you.”  
  
Making a scoffing sound in his throat, he pulls his hand from hers and slowly takes another swallow from his beer bottle. Then, quietly, he admits, “Sometimes I can’t remember what she looked like, or how she sounded, and then I start thinking about how the last time I saw her I kissed her, and I wonder how the hell I ever fucked Sofia when I…”  
  
Stopping himself, he glances over to see Sara’s serene expression highlighted by more tears. Then he finally understands. He can’t share this with Michael, because it hurts him too much. Sara is impartial, Sara didn’t know Vee, didn’t love her in some way, didn’t lose her just like Lincoln had.  
  
“Go on,” she encourages.  
  
It’s right then with those words that Lincoln realizes he will.  
  
It doesn't happen all at once; it never does.


End file.
